


On Broken Wings

by ch1ps0h0y



Category: Magic Kaito, 名探偵コナン | Detective Conan | Case Closed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Fae & Fairies, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Red String of Fate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 05:20:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19846420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ch1ps0h0y/pseuds/ch1ps0h0y
Summary: It ends as it begins: on a cold, dark, snowy night.(AU where Kaito is a fae spirit, mixed in with some red string of fate undertones.)





	On Broken Wings

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written much in a long, long time; pray forgive any clumsiness. This is my submission for Round 4 of the SaguKai Creations Challenge. Prompt: Fate/the Fates - Mythology.

The last time he sees Kid's sail is on the eve of the winter solstice.

He chases the distant white triangle to a park and finds it crumpled and broken amidst the white-laden bushes. Rivulets of blood trickle through the snow like strawberry ice. The thief is nowhere to be seen.

He bites his lip and crouches next to the mess, habitually pulling on a pair of gloves before he reaches out to touch the scene. Fingertips caress the jagged line of the glider, a broken metal spar jutting out like broken bone beneath the wing. He closes his eyes and pictures the fall, the impact, the aftermath.

He stands. Brushes ice off the knees of his pants and walks some hundred metres deeper into the trees following a set of clumsy footprints.

Kid is sprawled out in the snow with the broken remnants of his wings on his back, trailing a tangle of ripped canvas and thin steel rods. He sinks beside the thief and places a gentle hand on their cheek. Lashes flutter, one eye cracks open.

"Hakuba..." they slur.

"You fool," he responds quietly. "Don't you remember what happened the first time you tried to fly through strong winds?"

They laugh weakly, coughing up blood. They're cold. "Help me up?" they ask.

He offers a hand, which they grasp with unusual strength, and rises to his feet. It takes a few attempts for Kid to get theirs beneath them, but he digs his heels in to pull them up and lets them lean on him while clumsy hands fumble the catch for the broken glider. It collapses into the snow at their feet, white on white.

"Take me back there," they whisper against his chest. "Please."

"You're in no state to walk," he mutters. He feels how chilled they are, the way their body shivers against his, their unconscious gravitation towards the heat of his body.

"Kid," he says. He hears them suck in a short breath. There's blood on his hands from where they've been resting at the small of their back. It's red like the knot of their tie, which he wraps around one fist and uses to tug the thief closer so that their pale lips can meet.

There is a sort of reverence to be found in pursuit. His tongue sweeps their mouth and tastes iron and cherry. Their scent: dust and pine and other ephemeral things his nose cannot grasp. But it's sweet, spicy, and laced with undisguised mischief. Kid plays coy, smiling against his mouth, trying to pull away. He loops an arm about their waist and draws them back.

One does not _keep_ the fey folk from leaving, but one can certainly persuade them to stay for a time. And from their their languid and lazy reciprocation, he knows he has them.

After a few minutes, Kid finally places a hand on his chest and pushes him back. Some of the colour has returned to their face but he can see them trembling still.

"Take me back," they insist.

His eyes sweep down their bloodstained figure. They sway slightly, even standing still. He says, hesitantly, "I really don't think you should be walking--"

Kid hisses through his teeth. Hands fist in the lapels of his jacket and yank him down. Eyes the colour of the cold waters of the Atlantic bore deep into his own.

" _Take me back_ ," Kid demands. "I need to hear them. I need their devotion, my name on their lips, their _ardour_...!"

And then all at once the iciness fades. Kid loosens their grip, takes a deep breath - coughs blood on to his front again but he has already written off the suit - and slumps against him. "Please," they whisper.

He looks upon their pitiful figure and finds himself relenting. A hand rests on their hair and smooths over the wild, wayward strands, slipping down to rub the fine hairs at their nape. Then lower until he feels the two unnatural lumps between their shoulder blades where Kid's wings had been torn away. They had been beautiful, gossamer things spun of starlight and dreams, as light and airy as spider silk and with as little presence. He doesn't know who is responsible for their absence and Kid has never been forthcoming about them. The thief tenses when his hands pass over the lumps.

"Put your arm around me," he tells them softly. He helps them limp through the snow, out of the trees and back towards the chaos the heist had left behind. As they walk, he hears them mutter something underneath their breath. A shiver runs through him which is unrelated to the cutting wind sneaking its fingers underneath the collar of his suit jacket. Miraculously, they encounter no-one while retracing his steps.

A throng of fans and supporters ring the police barricade, chanting, "Kid! Kid! Kid!" Some wear crude top hats, some wear capes. Others wave large placards bearing Kid's signature doodle even though the object of their fanatacism has (as far as they are aware) long since fled. All bear some token of white to mark their shared devotion. He halts with Kid under the awning of a shuttered cafe and stares out across the sea of fans.

He should disapprove. That is the proper way of the world: that the lawful should hunt the lawless. However, when he drops his gaze to the thief's face and sees them raptly drinking in the ardent proclamations of their name, that disapproval recedes. Their breathing evens out; they stand a little taller; their pallor turns to a less alarming shade of pale. Like a flower turning its petals towards the sun, Kid cranes forward and basks in his followers' worship.

Sympathy pricks at his conscience. In this secular, digital age there is little and less belief in the mythical. The old deities find their names uttered only in books or film or a business riding on their fame. For all the spirituality of Japan, he has only caught a single glimpse of divinity in his time here: that of a god smiling as their monks came to pray at a temple.

Kid is no god. For a time, he feared he had brought the fey spirit along with him from his homeland, but Kid had assured him he wanted neither his bread nor his milk left beside an open window at night. Although, they had added cheekily, they would never object to free offerings.

"I found it, by the way."

Their voice breaks him out of his reverie. He blinks, shakes himself. "You found...?"

A twist of their wrist. A blood red stone appears between their thumb and forefinger, raw and uncut. It seems to drink in light. "The Stone," Kid says in a reverent whisper.

He reaches for it but Kid makes it vanish into a sleeve, shaking their head. "It's not something humankind should ever touch."

His hand falls back to his side. "You'll be leaving then." He does not know why he feels so disappointed. It had been the inevitable outcome ever since he deduced Kid's search pattern. And yet every time he had watched Kid sail away on that insufferable glider, there had always been the implication of a next time, of another illusion.

Kid's gentle fingers catch his chin and turn his head towards them. Another kiss stolen but it feels like their last. He rests his forehead against theirs, ignoring how it pushes back the brim of their hat and reveals more of their face. It isn't as though he doesn't already know who the visage belongs to.

"Who will I chase once you're gone?" he asks jokingly, curling his fingers around one gloved hand.

The thief tips their head up, brushing back a stray lock of his fringe. "The ones who took my wings."

A cold gust blows past them, scattering his image to the four winds. He is left shivering in the snowy dark with a memory of warmth and a smile. An officer spots him and calls out, hurrying over with a blanket, but it's a poor substitute for one who is no longer there.

"Kid is gone," he tells the police. Gone for good, he wants to add, but the turn of phrase holds an unwelcome sense of finality. But is it crueller to give them hope of something which may never be again?

He heads home. One full month passes.

The seat beside the window is empty. Class is quiet without its primary troublemaker underfoot. His classmates mill about each other's desks chatting animatedly in the few minutes they have before home-room begins, yet it's a liveliness he cannot feel apart of. Not without him.

"...Kuroba?"

A hush falls across the room. Then other voices take up the call.

"Kuroba, you're back!"

Everyone piles forward, swamping their absent classmate with a clamour of hugs and questions. Had he been sick? Did he see the heist? Why hadn't he said anything?

Saguru remains in his seat, stomach churning with equal parts anxiety and relief. He watches the other boy fend off the class then make his way towards the detective's seat. Kaito halts beside him with a grin.

"What, no big welcome back for me?"

He stares up at the boy. Their shit-eating grin. Their unrepentant smirk. That little crook of the eyebrow which is a personal insult all on its own. Although he ought to be angry that he has been made to wait for as long as he has, it is nothing compared to his relief that Kaito is finally _here_.

"You're late," he says dryly. Kaito laughs and rubs the side of his nose.

"What can I say? I still had a favour to pay back."

Saguru's eyes drift down and hover on the ring of woven thread he had slipped on to the erstwhile thief's little finger that night Kid had retired.

Before either of them can say more, the teacher strides in and calls for the class to take their seats. Kaito slips into his old place beside the window. Their eyes meet briefly before their attention is called to the front, but in that short moment they share, there is a smile for one another. It's warm and tingles on the cheek, comfortable and soft like the matching ring Saguru wears on his own hand.


End file.
